


Nighthawks

by star-anise (ricecakes)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Era, Emotional Constipation, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricecakes/pseuds/star-anise
Summary: Napoleon is a good host. Illya tests this theory.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 163





	Nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> I love the aesthetics of this movie. It’s like my favorite comfort movie, and I wanted to hang around these silly liars for little while longer, so here we are. This is my first fic ever—comments and advice are very appreciated. (And also a biiiig TY to my beta reader!) 
> 
> Apologies if I get any of the facts wrong! And please lmk if I’m forgetting any tags

Napoleon kicked his heels up on the ottoman and took a moment to luxuriate in his post-dinner scotch, rich and sweet. It tasted like decadence. Paired with the view of Lake Michigan dark in the distance, the evening was shaping up nicely.

Waverly had given them a week’s reprieve before the situation in Spain would require their delicate touch. So he had flown to Chicago to pay a visit long overdue to one of his most faithful buyers. They had been quite pleased with the exquisite Roman ring and fibula he’d “found” in his latest travels. It was a very, very worthwhile visit.

In a good mood, Napoleon decided to detour from his route back to the hotel room he’d rented in the Loop and risk a visit to his favorite cache.

He hadn’t stopped by in six months, so the rooms had smelled a little musty. But nothing he couldn’t fix, he thought, stripping off his vest and rolling up his sleeves. In the middle of swapping out his bed linens, he’d once again fought himself on hiring a maid to look after the place. But deliberately telling someone about this particular cache felt too much like instigating a gunfight while blindfolded; it hadn’t turned out well for him the one time he’d tried. He would rather beg Saunders for another ten years under his greasy thumb. Besides, the dust was not a bad secondary security system, he thought as he coughed.

After setting the apartment to rights, he did another cursory inspection of his neighbors’. He didn’t know them, though he briefly examined their rooms to make sure they didn’t know him either. Nothing had come out of it, except for a pair of Dior earrings that an old associate would be quite pleased to accept.

Now it was finally time to celebrate, perching within his own magpie’s nest. Turner in conversation with Van Gogh, an elegantly lacquered Japanese tanto glinting beside a gilded Venetian Hermes posed mid-stride, all under carefully temperature-adjusted glass. Single-handedly a record of human genius and of his own personal triumphs—artifact, trophy, and pension in one. 

“Nothing beats home,” he tested the words out, and couldn’t help but grin at his own corniness.

He was getting dangerously attached to this particular apartment—it wasn’t just the contents that made this his favorite cache. Here was good old American craftsmanship, down to the walnut paneling, mother of pearl accents, and brass fixtures. He imagined pushing a certain set of broad shoulders against the wall, admiring in his mind’s eye how the dark buttery finish would look under a sculpted and scarred back.

The lazy curl of desire that accompanied his musings dissolved at a noise at his door. Then knocking came, a rhythmic pattern he recognized. But that was… unlikely. Frowning, Napoleon debated retrieving the Luger tucked under the ottoman or the Browning behind the bar. Well he was on holiday, so Browning it was.

Napoleon peered through the peephole and sighed at the pair of oxfords on his feet. “Always in the goddamn shoes.” He’d neglected to check for bugs since he’d checked them just three days ago, but that’s what you get for underestimating Illya. Next time, he would have to buy a new pair en route if he ever wanted to keep private business private.

A paler than usual Illya had loomed through the peephole, kitted out in his usual flat cap and flight jacket. Curiosity won over caution and Napoleon adjusted his grip on the pistol before cracking the door open. He didn’t hear any excess movement in the hallway. The man was alone.

“Fancy seeing you here?” Napoleon said, body already taking a step back to let Illya in before the decision had even crossed his mind. Dangerous.

“Nobody following,” was the grunted reply to Napoleon’s unspoken question. Illya’s eyes swept the room before heading for the bathroom, knuckles bloody and hand pressed to a bleeding wound on his bicep, ignoring all of Napoleon’s pointed looks.

Napoleon could only bolt the door and follow bemusedly, wondering at how Illya, whom he last saw in New York two days ago, could also be in Chicago. Last he heard, there was nothing exciting aside from the usual racket from the Chicago Outfit, no state secrets being developed at the university labs, nothing. That was part of the reason why now was a prime opportunity for Napoleon’s short holiday, though Illya couldn’t claim to have a similar reason.

Exhibit A, still bleeding as Illya pulled the first aid kit from under the sink. The mirror caught Illya’s minute flinch as he straightened—the movement must have jostled the wound. Wordlessly, Napoleon tucked his pistol into his waistband and fell into the familiar rhythm of helping Illya out of his bloody clothes, cleaning the tacky blood from around the wound, taping and wrapping the bleeding gash. Thankfully the wound wasn’t more than a scratch.

“Seems like someone’s gotten a little sloppy,” he said for something to break up the strangeness of having one’s coworker in one’s private home. With the concepts of home and privacy all evidently relative.

“Someone is little bitter,” was the gritted retort. Illya’s accent was always harsher when he was sulky.

“How did you even get that?”

“Passed by a bar. A small man had something to prove, and he had friends.”

Napoleon laughed. That could almost be believable, though it didn’t answer why Illya was here. Leaving Illya to wash, Napoleon went to find the only other dressing gown he kept in this apartment; Illya’s bare arms and sweaty undershirt clashed with all porcelain and chrome. Wistfully he wished Illya had chosen to crash his hotel room instead. There also wouldn’t have been the glaring question of why Illya would be this deep into the south side of town—this incident would have made more sense amongst the hustle and bustle of the Loop.

Sighing, he left the robe on the end table by the bathroom and went to pour himself another drink. Good things should be savored, but the situation called for a pick-me-up. After a moment of hesitation, he got out another glass for his uninvited guest and went to look for some ice in the kitchen. Nobody could ever claim Napoleon Solo was a bad host. He kept the pistol on his person nonetheless.

Illya padded into the living room, emphatically studying Napoleon’s collection, Napoleon’s robe on him comically ending right under the knee. Amused, Napoleon watched this belated show of respect for Napoleon’s privacy; there was no doubt that Illya had already cased the rest of the apartment. There was nothing incriminating to find anyway, aside from the “lost” or “destroyed” artworks or the many caches of firepower scattered throughout. Nothing Illya didn’t already know or suspect, though Napoleon would be annoyed if Illya tried to take any souvenirs.

“Chicago’s a nice town. Been to the Art Institute yet?” Napoleon called from the kitchen. “They’ve some Lisstzkys that’ll appeal to you, Comrade.”

“I just arrived,” Illya said as he studied the Kandinsky sketch hanging by the bookshelf.

“Ah, then you should’ve dropped in to visit my pair of loafers in the Loop instead of coming all the way down here. Much easier for sightseeing.”

Illya shrugged his shoulders, something he’d picked up from Napoleon. “This was more convenient.”

Napoleon had a feeling that Illya would answer any question except why. So he didn’t ask. Glasses in hand, Napoleon returned to the living room to find Illya sitting—dare he say, slumped—against an arm of the sofa, darkly staring out at the night view of Lake Michigan, absently flipping through a first edition of Wilde’s _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. The stark bandage on his arm peeked from his sleeve, distracting Napoleon from the view of Illya’s thighs. 

“Mind your arm. I doubt that book, or the rest of my décor, would be improved with your blood all over it,” Napoleon sniffed and handed over one of the glasses to Illya, who received it with his wounded arm to make a point.

“Your decor is already terrible,” Illya blatantly lied as he took a sip. 

There was nothing really to say to that. Normally Napoleon could draw him out of his shell. They had spent many evenings verbally—and physically—sparring in safe houses all over the world. But tonight Napoleon wasn’t feeling very welcoming, and the giant seemed maybe even a smidge broodier than usual. So he shrugged and resumed lounging in his armchair, keeping an ear out for early warnings of any unexpected surprises. Answers always came, eventually.

The silence settled like it was any other night somewhere that was not his most secret safe house. He found himself staring out at the view of Lake Michigan once more, mirroring Illya. It was a pity—he had truly enjoyed this apartment. 

Tomorrow he’d have to clear everything out; some of these contents he already identified buyers for, some would have to go to the bolthole in Crystal Lake, and some he would unfortunately have to leave behind. The sofa that Illya was sinking steadily into, for one, had been ordered from a hotshot French firm to suit the room’s specific dimensions. It had been painstakingly built, disassembled for transport, and reassembled here. He’d just have to have his guy sell the place furnished for extra.

Glancing over at Illya again, he saw that the root of all his troubles was fiddling with the glass in his hands, book abandoned. To be fair, he thought Illya looked spectacularly well here, amongst all his other stolen luxuries. There was a particular charm, the way his hair glinted in brass fixtures—Napoleon had called him inhuman once, but he didn’t realize until later that he could also have meant it with awe.

“You are the only one here.” Illya finally said, shaking Napoleon out of his musings.

“Who else would be here?” Napoleon was genuinely confused.

To that, Illya’s expression loosened but he scowled. He muttered something that sounded like it had “Gaby” in it.

Napoleon sighed in exasperation. “Does _everyone_ know about this place?”

“No.” Illya looked contrite. “She only pointed out your dossier omits your ties to Chicago, though you always come a few times a year.” He cleared his throat. “Nobody knows about this place, Solo.”

There was something in Illya’s admission just now, but Napoleon couldn’t quite put his finger on it. If Napoleon didn’t know any better, the man had seemed a little… nervous. And anything that made Illya nervous was likely bad news—though his gut had told him Illya wouldn’t hurt him, not intentionally, ever since Istanbul. Caution and intuition were both constants in this line of work.

“So you decided to come and find out what was special about Chicago…” he stalled, studying Illya, who nodded slowly. “Haven’t you already broken into my apartment in New York?”

“You broke into my apartment first!” Illya wasn’t nervous about admitting that. So it wasn’t anything to do with privacy. “And you moved everything!”

“That was a great joke,” Napoleon chuckled.

“It took me hours to move everything back to the left!”

“And now I have to move everything out of this apartment, so I think we’re even.” That brought Illya’s ire up short.

“You don’t have to. I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Illya said, staring straight into his eyes. Illya’s face was often an open book—it was one reason why Napoleon was the better spy, he’d always thought smugly. Now his face was saying _trust me_ with startling earnestness.

“It’s professionalism, Peril. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy your brief stay in this apartment.” Perhaps he was a little more annoyed than he’d realized if Illya was reacting so strongly. Pot, kettle, and all that, but dammit he had really liked this place.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Illya said again.

“It’s just an apartment,” Napoleon kept his tone light, telling both of them that. Finishing his glass, he stood to signal the end of this non-conversation. It was getting late and he didn’t relish suffering the odd atmosphere for the rest of the night.

From personal experience, sleeping on the sofa meant waking up with a stiff neck. Doubtless they’d all been in worse quarters, but it seemed wrong somehow. Napoleon didn’t have it in him to dig out another set of sheets for the guest room tonight, so Illya would just have to make do.

“You’ll just have to sleep with me tonight,” Napoleon decided. Illya choked on air before resuming a suspiciously blank expression.

His face was often an easy tell, but the key to understanding Illya was to look at his hands. They tapped when he was trying to calm himself down, clenched before an explosive punch, rubbed the strap of his father’s watch when he was melancholy. Now they fidgeted with the glass in his hand before stilling under Napoleon’s gaze.

So that was it. Napoleon couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, tension draining out of his shoulders. So that was the answer.

Interesting. He hadn’t meant it that way, not consciously at least. But now that he was looking, he noticed Illya press his legs together under the robe like a modest young lady. His earlier fantasy flashed through his head. Well, why not? The overt glances, the strange tension that sometimes sparked when their eyes met after a good fight. Napoleon wanted to see where this went.

“You’ll have to sleep with me tonight,” Napoleon repeated, flashing his best charming smile. This was a bad idea. But he’d always been a gambling man.

“I could sleep here,” Illya said, not meeting his eyes. 

“My sheets are nicer,” Napoleon said. Trying to move things along, he drained the last of the scotch in Illya’s glass. Illya tracked the motion and swallowed in echo, a reaction that Napoleon enjoyed immensely. He set the glass down on the coffee table with a crisp click, and beside it he placed the pistol from his waistband. Then he caged Illya in, with a knee on the cushion and a hand on the seatback.

Adrenaline brought a burst of clarity—it was the same feeling he’d had that first night, lining up a shot at Illya’s front tire to neutralize a superhuman enemy, hand still and mind focused. He’d pulled that trigger on an exhale, then waited for impact. This feeling he recognized. Snaking his fingers into Illya’s soft hair, Napoleon smiled at how Illya was frozen. 

“You don’t want to?” Napoleon asked softly. Tomorrow they could wake up and the world could have changed again. Tomorrow either one of them could receive another kill order. But the pull in his gut wiped all his doubts away. 

He saw the moment Illya caved. It was the same moment Illya’s face went from blank to hungry, the same moment Napoleon felt large hands cradle his face. Illya kissed with all his emotions on display, spilling all his frustration and longing into aggressive nips and licks that threatened to make Napoleon breathless. It contained more urgency than finesse, so Napoleon deepened the kiss, teasing him with his tongue and his lips until Illya shuddered, a soft angry sound. 

When they finally broke apart, he was mostly on Illya’s lap with a hand still braced against the sofa. Giving up the pretense, Napoleon sank his full weight on Illya and let his hands roam. It was unfair how the scent of Napoleon’s own soap smelled better somehow on Illya’s skin. He leaned in to continue but was stopped by a gentle hand against his chest. 

Illya searched Napoleon’s face, suddenly somber despite the color high on his cheeks. “There isn’t anyone else, is there? Solo?” The words seemed to rattle as they came out.

Blinking dazedly, Napoleon tried to make sense of the question. The oddities clicked into place. He should’ve known. Illya’s mother was a scarred trench burned into his psyche. “I don’t have any secrets of that sort,” Napoleon said carefully.

Illya caught his lips in another rough kiss and used his brawler’s mitts to begin working at Napoleon’s shirt. In retaliation, Napoleon slipped his fingers under Illya’s robe, tracing the edge of a ragged scar as muscles shifted beneath Illya’s skin. Getting Illya to take a shower had been a good stroke of foresight. Illya nibbled down his neck and Napoleon felt his pants grow tight. His thigh detected similar interest from Illya.

“Bed,” Napoleon forced out, and pulled them to their feet. At this rate they were going to dirty the sofa. 

Illya leaned down for another kiss. The angle was a welcome surprise; not many people Napoleon kissed were taller than him. The twinge in his neck barely registered compared to Illya’s fingertips against his chin tilting his face up, making Napoleon feel almost fragile—how novel. 

After more hungry kisses, they finally found their way to the bed. Eager hands helped him out of his undershirt as he pulled Illya’s borrowed robe into disarray. Illya half-sat, half-fell into bed and Napoleon climbed on, kicking off the last of his clothes and caging Illya’s thick thighs between his knees. He drank in Illya’s flushed face and uncertain eyes, ran his palm over Illya’s landscape of broken skin and discolored scars. He’d seen Illya’s body before, in showers post-spar and in safehouses on missions, but now it was new again, exciting. 

Illya’s own uncertain hands finally came to a rest on Napoleon’s thighs, stroking lightly. Already, Illya was half-hard, cock listing to the right almost shyly. Napoleon gave him a firm squeeze to say hello. 

“How’re you feeling?” Napoleon asked it, licking his lips before slanting a sly glance at Illya’s face. Illya glared, no longer looking lost.

“Solo, are you talking…” he trailed off with a shudder when Napoleon teased his tip with a thumb, making it twitch and drool. 

“It’s good manners, Peril.” He leaned in for another slow kiss, learning the ways to make Illya melt. Napoleon sighed as Illya wrapped a warm hand around Napoleon’s own erection. 

He’d wanted to tease Illya until he could watch his face crumple in pleasure. But the competitive streak that they cultivated everywhere reared its head here too. Illya’s chin tilted up in challenge, his eyes hooded under thick eyelashes. Napoleon couldn’t help but plant a kiss there too, to feel them flutter against his lips. Then Illya dragged him down and the room was filled with only the sounds of slick skin and heated breaths.

Illya came with a shudder. Napoleon had a moment to smirk before Illya’s dazed, pleasure-drunk expression and a twist of his wrist pushed him over the edge too. 

That didn’t last very long. But Napoleon was already planning how he’d tease Illya next time. He leered at the man taking deep breaths beside him. This was nice too, lying in the afterglow and watching droplets of sweat trickle into Illya’s hairline. Like this, Illya looked softer, his face open but still searching for something in Napoleon’s expression. For what, Napoleon didn’t know, but Napoleon hoped he found it.

“Sure was a good thing that nobody else was here. What were you going to do anyway?” Napoleon teased as he ran his fingers over Illya’s chest. “Scare the daylights out of them?” Sometimes Illya was truly the terrible spy he’d always accused Napoleon of being.

“I don’t know, Cowboy,” Illya said defensively. He gave him a tired glare and turned over, ostensibly to sleep but Napoleon knew better. None of them slept that much—it was an occupational hazard. Anyone who needed to sleep more than a few hours a night didn’t tend to last long in this business, one way or another. After the third time he woke up at knifepoint with an uncommonly eager bedfellow, Napoleon’s body no longer tolerated anyone else in the same bed.

But he was used to Illya’s bulk, so his body compromised, eyelids drooping and mind drowsing, enjoying the warmth an arm’s length away.


End file.
